


The Arrow Paradox

by MartianSquid



Series: Zeno's Paradox [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Aromantic, Aromantic Jim, Aromantic Sherlock, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Banter, Begrudging Attraction, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Comfort/Angst, Companions, Companions Who Have Sex When Necessary, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Love/Hate, M/M, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, No Romance, Omega Jim, Omega Verse, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, commitment issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 17:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5057029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartianSquid/pseuds/MartianSquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thought keeps occurring to Jim, like a virus latched onto his frontal lobe, but digs down even deeper than that. To the end, into his bones, into his animosity. <i>Sherlock.</i></p><p>It certainly doesn't help that his next heat is today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "If everything when it occupies an equal space is at rest, and if that which is in locomotion is always occupying such a space at any moment, the flying arrow is therefore motionless."

Every now and then, Moriarty prods at his neck. Sometimes, the chemical suggestion flares up with just a touch, making him miss _that_ Alpha. _His_ Alpha, by some standards. Thankfully, its effect was waning. 

The wound had long since healed, but the scar tissue would be carved faintly into the flesh for at least a few years. However long it would take for the cells to completely shed and regenerate, for his body to forget he had a mate. 

Not much research had been done into that, for obvious reasons: either a mate would regularly renew his “claim,” or someone else would mark over it. As if an Omega were just property, swapped between teeth. 

 _Revolting._ The thought itself was usually enough to make Jim’s fingers fly away as if he’d been burned. 

But not today. 

Today, Jim had to make a decision. It’d been precisely six months since his run-in with Sherlock Holmes, which had thoroughly derailed his plans. Surprisingly difficult to force a man into suicide when you’re in his bed, pleading for him to make the _ache_ stop. 

It was also _quite_ difficult to pick up where he left off, now marked, and a hair sentimental about what was, objectively, a fantastic lay. Jim hoped it was nothing more than the hormones, but under that… he’s aware that no matter the chemical suggestion, he wouldn’t have gotten into bed with just _anyone_. Not without a fight. 

And today. _Today_. Today was the last possible day his heat suppressants were certain to work without taking a break. Meanwhile, during, his thumb hovered over Sherlock’s name in his texts. Hadn’t taken a pill that morning. 

Despite himself, he _wanted_. Wanted to be held, comforted, taken care of, rather than weeping, curled in on himself, _desperate_ and _alone_. In his head, being with Sherlock again sounded storybook, lovely, better and better as he began to feel sweat bead on his nape. 

 _Fine_. 

He pressed “call,” watching the screen tint green, Sherlock’s name bubbling wide… 

And then he hung up. Lost his nerve, panicked, whatever one could call it. Couldn’t have rang for more than half a second. Regardless, Jim should’ve known better than to pry open that option without being completely sure. 

 

**Good day. -SH**

 

Jim was already fucked, and not in the mood to humiliate himself by dragging out saying that was _exactly what he wanted_. 

 

**I’m barricading the door in twenty minutes. Safety protocol.**

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was there in ten. _Never disappoints_ … Moriarty thought wistfully, face-down on his mattress, still in a suit, but underneath laid an utter mess. The sound of the door would’ve been enough, but the second Sherlock’s _scent_ touched the room, Jim’s body lit up. He was the end of a matchstick, phosphorous, potassium chloride, reacting together violently. 

“Excuse my boldness, but…” Sherlock’s lovely baritone kissed Jim’s ears, and despite feeling as if he may burst into flames, he shivered hard. “I don’t often get the opportunity to tell you how marvelous you are.” 

“I don’t…” Jim cleared his throat, tone too close to a _whine_ , cock throbbing in response, “Don’t have _time_ for your meaningless compliments.” 

“Hardly meaningless.” Sherlock shrugged out of his coat, dropping it on the ground. Not _unaffected_ by the sight in front of him, but he had to keep his mind, lest he lose control too fast. 

“I’m _laying_ on my front.” He groaned, “You can’t _see_ anything of me…”

“It’s a general observation, since I’m not allowed to see you except for your… less dignified moments.” 

Jim squirmed on his front, rolling over, the drag of the cloth kickstarting another bout of _need_. “Yes. _Undignified._ Now, if you would _hurry_ and _help_ with that situation, rather than make idle banter…”

“ _I’m_ in no rush.” Sherlock grinned, undoing his shirt slowly, “And from the symptoms evident, you’re not in full heat yet.”

“No. But it’s soon.” Jim wrinkled his nose, hiding his mouth watering as his eyes were drawn to Sherlock’s abs. “ _Worse_ every second you’re here.”

“I know. And while we had a moment, I’d like to note that it’s _curious_ …” Sherlock’s hand lingered at his belt. “That you called _me_ , and not some random Alpha, if toys really wouldn’t suffice.”

“ _Shut up_.” Jim grunted, a pained wince crossing his face, “You already knew and haven’t told anyone.”

“Discretion is a benefit of using me, yes.” He undid his belt, ripping open the zip, “And luckily for you, I’m losing patience.” He stepped out of his trousers, letting them gather on the floor, one knee on the bed. “You smell so _appealing…_ from a purely biological perspective.”

“ _Shut. Up._ ” Jim lurched forward, arms wrapping around Sherlock’s neck, mostly-naked body bowling into his own. _Better_ , he internally sighed in relief, weight finally grinding against him. “And _fuck_ me already.”

“Getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, using his index finger to tug at the waistband of Jim’s fine slacks.

“ _Hell_.” Jim swore, tears welling up in his eyes, frustration boiling over as he ripped at them so hard the button flew off. 

“Enthusiasm noted and appreciated.” Sherlock’s mild amusement had curbed into breathless need, edging back to help him free his legs. He was greeted with the gorgeous sight of pale, bare skin. “No pants. You are perfect.” 

“ _A-again_ …” Jim was _above_ beginning. Or, he was supposed to be, wasn’t he? “I don’t have _time_ for tha- ”

Sherlock’s head had ducked down, and all Jim knew was _heat_ , lips wholly wrapped around his prick. Jim nearly screamed, only stopped by lack of air. His fingers gripped the bedding, bunching them in his palms, legs kicking and slipping on the sheets. 

He was drowning, suffocating, brain shutting down. Great. Amazing. Nothing he’d ever felt before… but in a way, the pleasure was too great, concentrated in one place like this. It was _too_ good to come from it alone. 

Especially when he felt so _empty_. 

But he couldn’t ask for anything eloquently in this situation, the only words he could force through his teeth were: _please, please, please._

A minute passed before stimulation ceased. Or maybe it was a month, his sense of time was the first thing to go. Jim opened his eyes, unaware of how tightly until now he’d been scrunching them shut. The first thing he saw was Sherlock slinking over him — somehow still elegant — face flushed, panting.

The next was that same beautiful face kissing his, sucking his bottom lip. Accompanied by the euphoria of being _filled_ , stretching open, being _whole_ and letting him _in_ , becoming the hanging sentence that Sherlock would end. “God, _Sherlock-_ ”

“My darling.” A raspy whisper as there was a nibble to his ear. “I want to disappear in you.”

Jim didn’t have the ability to consider what that meant. “Me too.” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Enjoying that?” Jim asked, cracking an eyelid, head nestled on Sherlock’s chest. During Jim’s partial sex-coma, the taller man had managed to wriggle away, grab a book on mathematics, and get back into bed, snuggled back up. 

“Of course.” Sherlock noted the page number, then shut the text, setting it on the bedside table. “It’s interesting. Most of your library, at least in your room here- “ he gestured around at the shelves that he’d helped himself to, “seems to be academic literature.” 

“Mm. Helps me sleep when I need to. Or keeps me up longer, depending on my mood.”

“Understandable.” Sherlock rolled onto his side, arms wrapping around Jim, squeezing him close. It doesn’t feel as suffocating as Jim imagined, this affection, but it’s not something he’d want to gorge himself on. 

It must show on his face, because Sherlock squeezes him once more before rolling away. “Has your heat broken, then?” 

Jim frowned, leaning forward and huffing in Sherlock’s scent. There was a lingering edge of arousal in the air, enough to make his spent cock twitch. But it wasn’t the irresistible call of evolution it was six days ago. “Seems so.” 

“Excellent.”

“Is it?” Of course, Jim wasn’t handing out compliments, but there was a small sting of rejection at that statement.

“Yes. Means you can think objectively again.” Sherlock got out of bed, picking up and shimmying into his discarded pants. “Which is good, we have things to discuss.”

“Do we.” Jim watched in feigned disinterest as Sherlock slid back into the bed. Not that he wasn’t still welcome… but, well. Maybe he wasn’t. Dangerous to assume. 

“Yes.” He didn’t touch Jim again, but pulled the blanket up protectively over his hips, twisting to look at him. “You invited me over.”

“I vaguely recall.”

“For _this_.” 

“ _Sex_ , Sherlock. _Sex_.” Jim huffed, “It’s not a curse word.” 

“A tad vulgar, but I see your meaning.” Sherlock leaned back onto the headboard. “But. You want me. Yes?”

The immediate reflex is to deny. Slap him and cut the stupid Alpha off entirely. However… this one is special. Was allotted a certain amount of leeway, just because he was clever in all _other_ aspects except personal relationships. “At certain times of the year…”  

“Exactly.” The detective yawned. “If this is going to be a regular occurrence, we should make it so. Officially.” 

“ _Ha_.” Jim let that slip, even a moment of true mirth escaping. “Oh yes, let me just put you in my personal calendar!”

“Needn’t go that far, but…” He shrugged. “With the suppressants you’re on, it _is_ like clockwork.”

“Alright. So. Every six months, for a week at a time, you want me to avail myself to your stud-ly services?”

“Mutually beneficial arrangement.” Sherlock raised his brows, fingers dragging over Jim’s bare torso. He doesn’t shirk away. “You won’t be in pain when the inevitable occurs.” Slender fingertips brushed over his nipple. “Oh, and you adore me.”

Jim scoffed, choosing to ignore it for his own self-preservation. “And for you?” 

Sherlock grinned, as if he’d been waiting for that question. But responded, if only momentarily, with a slow, soft kiss to Jim’s temple. “I’ll let you figure that one out on your own.” 

He stood up, gathering the rest of his clothes. Jim envied how graceful he looked — all long, gangly limbs, but still shiny, beautiful. Might consider modeling for statues, could’ve easily rivaled _David_ … 

Jim watched. Considered. As Sherlock got back into his coat (wrinkled from the week on the floor), the smaller man wrapped the comforter around himself, wandering over to his closet. It was time to be productive again, no matter the soreness that plagued his arse. “The pleasure of my company is yours, is it?” He called, sifting through his undergarments. 

He heard Sherlock snicker, then close the door behind him. 

 

* * *

 

Suppressants. One every day, every _morning_. Approximately 90 of them later, Jim looks over an unpunched tab, the little periwinkle pill staring him in the face. 

Some Omegas chose to have heats every month. For a day. Or every three for three days. Or every six for a week. Other variants existed, to suit schedules as needed. For the busy Omega, who was or wasn’t raising kids concurrently with a career. 

Hadn’t taken his suppressant, but the dull ache hadn’t set in yet. Wasn’t so urgent, since it wasn’t put off for an inhumanly long stretch. Could still take it, put it off, business as usual. 

Jim _wanted_. Excuses or no, it was pointless to deny it. And Sherlock knew. Always had, in his own cryptic way. 

 

**Come over.**

 

In a roundabout way, that the detective would see through immediately, Jim was admitting to Sherlock being _right_. _‘Adore.’ How repulsive._

 

**For? -SH**

 

**Is it that hard to guess?**

 

**You’ve only invited me over for sex. But your pattern dictates you won’t need me for another quarter of a year. -SH**

 

**Then assume that I either don’t *need* you, but *want*, or I’ve decided to burn early.**

 

**The latter seems more likely. -SH**

**I’ll bring cigarettes. -SH**

 

* * *

 

“ _Sherlock-_ ” Jim’s voice is basically a series of whimpers, choking on the lump in his throat. He’s face-down, thought barely aware of it. Sherlock had positioned them at some point after the Omega’s brain had gone fuzzy. 

All he was really aware of was the constant pounding into his arse. It had somehow gotten _better_ , perhaps the detective had learned from the past, allowing for more consistent stimulation of his prostate. The Alpha decidedly dragging his pleasure out, refusing to knot Jim until he was _begging_ for it. 

“ _Sherlock- please!_ ” Something that had gotten more frequent. It came out a sob, eyes watering into the sheets. His body _needed_ it. Skin vibrating, overheating, tickling the end of his orgasm with each calculated (yet rough) thrust. Sherlock kept going, somewhat lost in just the _glide_ of it, Jim’s natural lube intoxicating in itself.

Jim tried to beg again, but could only make guttural sounds, clawing at the sheets desperately. He was being _pulled_ in five different directions, or so he felt. Agony. Searing agony that was only soothed for fractions of a second as Sherlock’s hips collided with his. 

Sherlock stilled, hips nestled against his body as Jim felt the beautiful _stretch_ of the knot expanding inside him, the pulse of his come inside him. Followed immediately by the explosion of his own release, mouth screaming of its own accord, muscles contracting, absorbing him in.

Instinctively, their hands entwine. They pass out like that, the Sherlock overlaying Jim, muscles giving out. 

 

* * *

 

“Shall I go?” Sherlock asked, exhaling a long drag, cigarette burning between his fingers. He lowered it for Jim to share. 

The Omega craned his neck up, sucking in the delightful chemicals. He exhaled, his stress escaping with the smoke. Heat was over, yes, but he wasn’t quite as disgusted with himself or his _help._ “No rush.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Are you busy? -SH**

 

 ****Strictly speaking, _yes_ , Jim is on the phone with some businessman in Abu Dhabi, which he’d put on speaker to check his incoming texts. But it’s the same old drag about requesting a murder to gain controlling shares in oil stocks, and the consulting criminal can’t quite bring himself to think it’s _that_ important. 

 

**Not particularly.**

 

**Can I come over? -SH**

 

 ****He frowned. It wasn’t his heat. It wasn’t even _close_ , nor was it directly after, as he was beginning to adjust to Sherlock’s presence. _Anyone’s_ presence, actually. Jim lived alone in his flat, moved every few months as well so his neighbors never quite managed to get a good look at him, or try to get to know him. 

Growing up in the foster system, he’d craved nothing more than a little privacy. And now that he had it, for leaps and bounds around, he was loathe to give it up. _Still_ … growing fond of Sherlock’s company wasn’t something he’d accounted for. Plus, he was feeling peckish, and more than a tad lazy. 

 

**Bring dinner.**

 

In an hour, the detective arrived, and Jim’s dining room table was covered in an assortment of cartons, some approximation of Chinese food. Jim was cautiously grateful, side-eying Sherlock to determine some veiled motive.

But hours go by, leftovers shoved in the barely-used refrigerator, and Sherlock doesn’t even seem to be there to _talk_ much. Jim’s back on the phone, head in Sherlock’s lap, hair being idly pet as the detective peruses case notes. 

As Jim speaks, he doesn’t worry that his companion might use any of it against him — there’s something silently cooperative about it, an agreement that this time doesn’t _really_ exist. 

It’s odd. Domestic. Jim can’t bring himself to hate it — something about having an Alpha- no, _Sherlock_ , around puts him at ease. 

They fall asleep like that. Wake up to find they’ve shifted to laying down, cuddled together. 

Jim sends him away as gently as he can, unsure of how he feels about this. Sherlock understands, leaves. 

However, he’s back again a few days later, before Jim can properly process. But he brings food and stays quiet, keeps mostly to himself. Hard for the Omega to muster up any real outrage. He eventually decides it’s okay, and they fall into a pattern: Sherlock comes over, brings food, they eat, work beside each other, sleep. They don’t talk for a few days, repeat. 

Every three months, Jim goes into heat. It’s a perfect, closed system. 

Until one day, his heat doesn’t come.

 

* * *

 

“So… there will be a line in the far left window if the test hasn’t expired…” Sherlock stretched out on the bed, perusing the instructions, the flimsy paper crinkling in his hands. “And one in the second window for negative. Two lines if positive.” 

Jim was in the bathroom, capping the stick, then washing his hands. “How long?” He turned it face-down — didn’t want to be _surprised_ by information. The smallest bit of control he had in the situation, he took.

“It says as early as one minute, but three to be safe. Anything over ten is invalid.”

“So, three, then.” Jim paced into the bedroom, standing in front of the dresser, too tense to relax enough even to lean on the wall. 

“Yep.” Sherlock swung his legs over the bed, sitting up to look at Jim. “It’s going to be alright.” Uncharacteristically comforting and vague of him, and Moriarty wasn’t in the mood for misplaced optimism.

“ _How,_ exactly?” 

“If you’re _not_ , then nothing changes.” 

 _I wouldn’t be so bold_ _as to make that assumption._ There were a few reasons heats could be delayed besides _pregnancy_ , and with Jim’s poor sleeping, eating and occasionally smoking habits, they seemed likely. But… recently, with Sherlock, he seemed to be falling into a more predictable rhythm. Perhaps it was an unconscious, evolutionary urge in the Alpha, providing and tending to his mate. Sweet as it was, in this particular situation, it contributed to the growing pit in his stomach. 

Even if he weren’t pregnant, there would have to be some changes. “This is too much of a scare to be so cavalier about.” 

Sherlock grimaced, but nodded once, “You’re right. And we’ll discuss that when we know either way. But our _lives_ won’t change.”

“And if I _am?_ ” Unconsciously, Jim’s hand rubbed over his stomach, then pressed down, curious to feel if there could possibly be a difference.

Sherlock wet his lips, standing up, approaching slowly. “I suppose I should ask if you even _want_ a baby.”

“ _No_.” Jim snapped.

“‘No,’ I shouldn’t ask? Or, ‘no,’ you don’t want one?”

“ _Both_.” Jim hissed, fingers drumming on his crossed arms, “You should know better.” 

Bonded, yes. Technically. But not in a relationship, or anything other than biological convenience. Not to mention the criminal couldn’t imagine having client meetings with a protruding belly that just screamed _vulnerable._

“Well, good then.” He hummed, petting Jim’s hair, “The result no longer matters.”

“I don’t want to carry it.”

“I know. It’s dangerous.” Sherlock gently folded his arms around Jim’s waist, slow enough that he could be pushed away if affection wasn’t wanted. “I don’t want you to.”

“Okay. Good.” In a messed-up way, he _wanted_ the detective to argue. Wanted Sherlock to reject him, to spit curses in his face, get _angry_. Give Jim an acceptable outlet to vent everything out. To send Sherlock away, because while those comforting arms were doing their job, being alone sounded _great_. 

“You’re getting a vasectomy.” He swallowed. “If you ever want to touch me again.”

Sherlock scowled, but with a blink, one could’ve missed it, fading into a nod of understanding. “Seems most prudent.”

 _Prudent. Stupid arse._ _How can he be so calm right now?_

“Time.” The detective guided Jim back to the sink, flipping the test over before either got the chance to protest out of fear. 

Jim’s eyes rake slowly over the stick, over the filled “confirmation” line, then…  


End file.
